


Paozu Fashion Week

by cyevi



Category: Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, BVDN, Drabble inspired, F/M, Fashion & Couture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 01:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18885298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyevi/pseuds/cyevi
Summary: Bulma has escaped from her third quarter shareholder's meeting to spend a week at one of the four biggest fashion events on the planet: Paozu Fashion Week. Unfortunately, the event has proved to be just as boring. That is, until she sees an impossibly stacked model behind the scenes.





	1. Catwalk

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter written as part of TPTH's May BVDN! The theme was Coffee Shop! As usual, I decided to deliberately stay off the theme and shove my prompts around until they gave me the story I wanted.
> 
> Catwalk Playlist:  
> -SaberZ "Javelin"  
> -Rock n' Rolla "Block"  
> -VIP3Rx "New York"  
> -Disclosure "Help Me Lose My Mind (WellSaid & Rubberteeth Bootleg)"
> 
> Beautiful artwork for the event by That's My Bulma!  
> 
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

**Prompt: Espresso**

Bulma raised her hand, admiring the subtle shade of espresso her stylist had applied to her coffin nails. The catwalk simply hadn't held her attention this afternoon and she was glad Mutchy's uninspired show was finally done. Endless, endless blobs of yellow caftans! Was the collection stolen from his grandmother's closet? This was exactly the reason Bulma usually sent her personal stylists to these events instead. Being the first time she had decided to grace the Prestigious Paozu Fashion Week herself, she had hoped to find personal inspiration. But so far, other than splurging on mountain wine and pastries, her vacation had been more filled with paparazzi than stunning haute couture.

“Beginning in ten minutes, the Summer Oji collection.”

 

**Prompt: Grind**

She sighed, glancing at her watch. Sitting through yet another tepid collection of awkwardly dressed models wearing Kami-knows-what this time—probably tufted bowling ball stilettos—just seemed torturous. If she left now, she could sneak into Le Gō and nosh on Chef Chichi's prix fix menu with a bottle of Château Shiro.

Bulma slipped towards the rear door where V.I.P.s could exit to avoid pushy photographers. Just as she was about to turn down the semi-hidden hallway, she caught a glance backstage. As if the gods above had planned this moment, her eyes latched onto a pair of unbelievably thick biceps just as a deep, sultry grind began thumping through the speakers.

Maybe she could watch … just one more show.

 

**Prompt: Coffee Date**

Before the lights in the hall switched completely to a wild mix of pink and yellow, Bulma had slipped back into her reserved seat.

“Thought you had left for a rendezvous with a mystery coffee date!”

Bulma turned toward the gossipy Monsieur Satan, the wealthy reality star of West City Wrestlers and gave him an insincere, silent smile.

“But this collection is truly all anyone who is anyone is talking about this season!” Satan stroked his grotesquely long mustache and continued blathering about fashion snobbery, but thankfully for Bulma, his chatter was drowned out by a second layer of deep club beats as the show began.

On the back of the stage, lights projected the words “Oji: Summer Princes”.

 

**Prompt: Whipped Cream**

The first model stepped out into the light wearing a tight, dark blue body suit that licked across the man's musculature. Thin asymmetrical pear lines wrapped across the taut fabric on his pectorals and disappeared behind his ribs. His lower half was similarly wrapped, the pants billowing a bit like whipped cream yet still emphasizing how utterly stacked the model was.

He completely ignored the audience. Stepping forward, his manner let the audience know that _they_ were his subjects, privileged to even be viewing him.

“Kami bless us!” Satan practically squealed into Bulma's ear. She barely heard his tittering as she stared down the impeccable example of masculinity. “Oji himself is modeling the first item in his line!!”

 

**Prompt: Caramel**

She didn't realize her lips had fallen open. She didn't realize that she was leaning forward in her seat. She didn't realize that she hiking up her pencil skirt along her thighs as she watched this man strut in time with the deep bass throbbing through her bones.

As he reached the end of the catwalk, the caramel skinned godling paused, turned his back to the audience and raised his chin into the yellow glow lights. He illuminated the room with his presence and when he tilted his hips into contrapposto at the same time the music let the drop hit, the audience lost their collective minds.

Women and men alike started screaming as the room filled with camera flashes.

 

**Prompt: Black, no sugar**

Oji paraded himself to the back of the catwalk. His hair, styled into a high flame, somehow retained a true black amid the light storm. Unlike most models, he didn't bother with a sugary pose at the end of his walk, immediately disappearing to the backstage area as the next model emerged.

Bulma craned her neck to hoping to peek into the backstage area, but to no avail. The next model was also handsome, taller, and also sported shockingly black hair, but he wore a tremendous smile and carried himself with a bit of a bounce. She lost interest in him immediately.

She decided that this couldn't wait and left her seat, and the shrieking Satan, for a second time.

 

**Prompt: Skin like mocha**

She reached the backstage entrance with some difficulty as several photographers had started rushing the stage to get the best shots of this new line. A few choice elbow jabs here and there got her through the crowd, but she found the backstage now guarded by two extremely large men in shaded glasses, one bald and one with an absurdly long ponytail and skin like rich mocha.

“I guess even the security around here gets into the fashion spirit,” she jested as she attempted to slip past the massive men. The one with the ponytail held up his hand.

“Sorry miss. Unless you're with the show, you'll have to wait to join Oji at his after party.”

 

**Prompt: Rush**

“I think you've misunderstood.” Bulma leaned into the guard's space. She waggled a finger at him, urging him to bend his massive height toward her. As he did, she put the directive finger on the bridge of his glasses and gently slid them down his nose to stare directly into his eyes. “I. Am. Bulma. Briefs. Any designer would be mad to miss an opportunity to meet _me_.”

Bulma rarely used her position in social circles to coerce others. Business, sure. But she could admit to herself that there was nothing remotely business-related about her desire to get backstage right now. Just the thought of getting to watch Oji work behind the scenes was giving her an enormous rush.

 

**Prompt: A cup of tea**

That had done it. The bald one placed his hand against his ear, muttered something she couldn't hear over the continuing thumping bass of the catwalk music, then nodded to the other guard. Both took a half step away allowing Bulma to pass.

She had expected chaos. People dashing about tossing clothing off, fussing with make up, and Oji himself shouting and directing every minute detail. Instead, he stood away from the catwalk entrance, calmly drinking a cup of tea. The area was precisely controlled without a word from him. But his intense glare seemed to note every detail, including a lingering glance in her direction.

Never in her life had she been looked at with such complete contempt.

 

**Prompt: Barista**

And never in her life had Bulma felt so out of place—like a barista at a fishing competition—but his glare woke her up.

What was she thinking, barging into the backstage of a fashion show? What was she hoping to accomplish here? The man was obviously busy. It's not like he was going to jump her bones right _then_.

He kept staring at her, unabashedly eyeing her entire body, and still he did nothing but sip that damn tea while his show continued around them.

She blushed. Full on, red cheeks and neck, flushed skin erupting into flames as she realized that, yes, her plan had actually been to come back stage and immediately hook up with a total stranger.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Silhouette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After Party playlist:  
> -Nick Curly "Underground (Deep Spelle Remix)"  
> -Avoure "Aura"  
> -Kettenkarussell "Maybe"  
> -Ben Böhmer & Wood "Reflection ft. Margret"  
> -Hot Since 82 "Buggin' (feat. Jem Cooke)"  
> -Foals "Late Night (Solomun Remix)"
> 
>  
> 
>  

Oji set down his cup of tea and walked toward her. Before she could decide how to react, two younger attendants brushed past her—one with short blond hair, the other with short black hair, both with identical builds—and met Oji not two meters from her. Unnervingly, Oji kept Bulma's gaze the entire time, one eyebrow perked up, his chin slightly lifted, a vague scowl across his lips, still commanding the room without a sound. The young man with black hair slipped behind Oji and in an instant, pulled off the skin tight shirt he had worn down the catwalk moments before.

Nude from the waist up, Bulma only had a second to trace the lines of his impossibly hard body before the young woman slipped a new top across his chest. Also dark blue, this reverse, Henley-inspired shirt hugged his shoulders and arms as the young man closed the buttons in the back. Similar to his first outfit, this top also had two asymmetrical pear lines, this time traveling down the line of his sides to the base of the shirt, which ended just below his hips in an almost peplum flare. On anyone else, Bulma would have found the look clownish, but the way Oji held his body gave the design a sense of refinement.

Realizing she was still gawking and without a plan, she scoffed and turned back to the entrance just as Oji stepped back onto the catwalk to finish the show. From the edge of the backstage area, she watched as the man stepped back into a flurry of camera flashes and his models followed him onto the stage for the finale.

As she exited the staging area, the massive security guard with the long ponytail approached her. This time, he sported an obnoxious grin on his face.

“We'll be seeing you at the after party at Liqueur's, right?” He brushed one hand across his hair, tapping down flyaways and stepped to the side, allowing her to pass. “I'm Raditz by the way. Let me know if you need … _anything_ , Ms. Briefs!”

If tonight kept going like this, Bulma was going to master her “are you fucking kidding me” silent smile in the next few minutes. She gave Raditz a slight nod then walked past, keeping as much distance between him and her as she could. As much as her loins wanted to soak in the end of Oji's show, she cleared her head and turned toward the V.I.P. exit, pulling her cell from her clutch. With two thumb taps, she speed dialed her personal stylist, back in West City.

As she stepped into the cool, early evening air of the ultra trendy Mount Paozu Villa, she glanced at her watch and ran a quick calculation in her head. 5 P.M. here, so only 11 P.M. back in West City. Although her stylist, and several other of her personal assistants were hired to be on 24/7 calls, she still hated bugging them late at night, unless it was an emergency.

The growing shudder between her legs apparently turned this into a serious emergency. She needed a plan. She wanted to capture Oji's attention, _without_ that horrid scowl! How dare that man look at her, Bulma Briefs, the most eligible bachelorette on the planet, with such disinterest! Not when she had already convinced herself that he would be a perfect … business partner in the near future.

“Yes Ma'am? How's the Paozu Fashion Week going?” The surprisingly rough, but chipper voice of Launch greeted her without a hint of annoyance. From the background noise, it seemed as if the woman was at a party of her own. Likely a fashion week watch party where industry experts gathered to gush about the newest threads.

“I need an outfit, Launch. Something that commands the room, that seduces everyone in a three block radius, that turns heads … of all types. And I need it in the next hour.” Bulma marched through the empty back alley, winding away from major boulevards to reach the edge of the town square.

“Where are you exactly, Ms. Briefs? I know of two designers that are nearby who have been bombarding me with requests since they found out you were in town.” The din behind Launch had settled, and Bulma guessed her stylist had moved out of the main party to give her full attention to the call.

“I've just left the East District, and I'm looking down Yao and Gurumes.” She paused and leaned back against the wall of a brick covered shop. Along the crossroads, she saw small, well-dressed crowds passing by on their way to evening events. A few photographers hung out on the street corners, snapping shots of almost everyone, hoping to get a candid shot of celebrities that were trying to blend into the city life with their retinues.

“Perfect! I'm going to suggest you head two blocks south to Whis and Sour's Atelier. The brothers have the most STU-NING collection this season. Regal, but not ostentatious, bespoke garments ready for personalization, and styles that will hug your curves like a desperate felon. I'll give them a ring now and let them know you're on the way.” Launch was giddy. Clearly, she had hoped a call like this would pull her out from just watching fashion week to building a key moment for her boss.

“Thank you, Launch. And sorry again for taking your place here at Fashion Week. I know you love coming out here to do some personal shopping for me, but I just _had_ to get away from that dreadful Q3 board meeting. I owe you one!” Bulma chirped and headed past several boutiques, a millnery with feather and leather hats, and at least two specialty fabric shops. She willed herself to keep going as she crossed paths with a confectioner's shop with massive chocolate covered strawberries in the window.

Whis and Sour's shop front wasn't street level. Bulma almost passed the blue door tucked between two larger shops with ready to wear fashion. Thankfully, the elegant cursive symbol, a mix of a capital W and capital S in the shape of a rocks glass, caught her attention. A small doorbell stuck on the wall by the doorknob glowed soft blue. She pressed and waited not more than twenty seconds before a young, slender man with shoulder length white hair opened the door for her. His eyes shone with delight, but his manner was calm and understated.

“Ms. Briefs, what a delight! We were thrilled to hear from Launch and have an exquisite selection of gowns for you to choose from. Do come up.”

**

Liqueur's was across down, in the gourmet district. The dozen or so restaurants lined the villa's famous gushing river and overlooked the drop of the waterfall about a mile from the town on the other side of the valley. Every restaurant had multi-level patios, string lights, and hidden heaters to keep posh guests comfortable year round. Bulma sat in the private car for a moment, checking her make up in a small hand mirror. Outside the restaurant, above the flood of paparazzi, Liqueur's signature sign, a three tailed fox, had been illuminated in a red light, indicating they were hosting a private function. Invitation only. Practically every venue in the district was red-lit tonight, but her lack of invitation didn't bother her.

Satisfied with her face, Bulma had to hand it to Sour. The gown was truly, nothing short of exceptional. When she told him where she was headed, his eyes had lit up. The chance to have his outfit featured at Oji's after party, on the indomitable Bulma Briefs was a once in a life time opportunity. Bulma had to admit, when Sour showed her the single shoulder, pale blue garment positively riddled with sand grain sized crystals, she fell in love. And as promised, Sour had tailored it in a flash to perfectly fit her curvaceous body.

Her left shoulder was draped in a translucent sleeve that dropped like a blooming flower to just above her elbow. Across her chest, the necklines met in a modestly low kimono-like overlap which continued down to her waist, where a stylish belt tucked the deceptively heavy gown against her curves down to her thighs. The dress finally flared out like a trumpet, just above her knees and a second wider flare around her feet. Sour had described the shape as a two-tailed mermaid.

When Bulma had reached for her purse to pay for the gown, Sour had scoffed. He absolutely would not accept payment for the dress. However, he had insisted Bulma let him call his favorite stylist over to finish the look.

She slipped her essentials, which had been removed from her clutch, into a hidden pocket and glanced at the surge of paparazzi again. Before leaving the car, she put on a pair of dark sunglasses. Hopefully, she would only need them until she got to the door.

**

Nappa walked up behind his boss, discretely leaned over and spoke under the music, while facing the opposite direction so as not to directly interrupt Vegeta's conversation with the impossibly older woman.

“She's here, sir. Just as you expected.” Nappa waited, scanning the room cautiously. Vegeta nodded to the woman and paused his conversation.

“Have Raditz keep tabs on her. And keep her away from me,” Vegeta spoke under his breath then walked away from Nappa, leading the older woman into a circle of journalists eager to vie for an exclusive interview with him.

Around the restaurant, his after party crew had set up long panels of opaque, white sheets, and had requested intense, yellow and pink lighting to illuminate the crowd. The staging caused the guests to randomly create slow, psychedelic silhouettes around the restaurant as they milled, drank, and hobnobbed. His entire model crew was in attendance, still performing like a group of princes in his summer line. Under the intense lighting, the dark blue of his desgins pulsed with a subtle elegance. The show had been perfect. Every detail rehearsed to perfection, every reaction from the audience guessed correctly in advance, every moment, every outfit, every model, every beat, every breath.

Except _her_.

A flurry of noise interrupted his recollection of this afternoon's show and camera flashes bled through the entrance of Liqueur's as someone stepped in. Although he didn't have a direct line of sight to the door, it had to be her. Raditz disappearing behind the maze of panels on the way to the door confirmed this guess.

He knew of her, of course. Nary a day went by when her face wasn't on the tabloids, the world news, or her adventures in the society columns. Photographers couldn't seem to get enough of her, regardless of the uninspired trash she normally wore. The plebs outside of the fashion world hung on practically every new outfit she appeared in, even though he would have struggled to define her 'style' as more than 'looks good on her'. Her company may have brought countless businesses to their knees, but for one of the world's most famous fashionista's, never once had she made a personal appearance at any of the four major fashion weeks. So much for being a fashion icon. Yet here she was. At _his_ event.

When he saw the woman brazenly waltz into his backstage, he had been livid. But so much training and rehearsal had gone into making his show perfect that he wasn't willing to even react to her presence, other than making sure she didn't interfere. Even in the dim lights backstage, he saw that she was flustered. Every news snippet of the woman showed off how mouthy she was, and it was clear to him she had somehow bullied her way backstage. Radtiz had clearly decided that the chance at getting his rocks off with a billionaire was more likely than keeping his job.

The front door finally closed off the incessant stream of flash photography, resetting the ambiance of his party, and Vegeta was able to get back to business. He turned and pulled the corner of his lip up, in a way he knew these editors would be writing about tomorrow morning, and gave his full attention to the ancient woman, Baba from _Uranai_ , the most influential fashion magazine in the world.

**

Bulma brushed a stray tendril of her shock blue hair from her brow and stepped into the party. The shouts from the paparazzi shocked at her appearance had been enough stardom to get the bouncers to let her through without issue. The restaurant, mostly styled with various shades of red and gold had been relit to imitate the Oji show, and she watched as small groups of people pass by the ceiling-to-floor white sheets, creating a brilliant moving artwork of silhouettes throughout the room. The effect, she had to admit, was transformative. She no longer felt like she was in one of the most exclusive restaurants in Paozu, but at an elite house party.

The music thumped away with familiar deep beats, and while no one had the gall to dance, it was clear everyone was in the spirit. A quick glance around the room and she saw the second model of the show, dressed in an impeccably tailored Oji outfit, laughing and mingling with a rather sizable group of equally attractive young men and women.

Just as Bulma reached the edge of the hostess's booth, Radtiz approached her and held out his hand. That same swarthy grin was plastered across his face. She was at least pleased to see that he had changed out of his standard black security suit and tie and into an Oji line item.

“Ms. Briefs! You made it! Can I escort you to the bar?”

“Ah .. er ..” Bulma hesitated and did not raise her hand to his. An old trick she learned from her mother, who as gracious as the woman was, knew every trick in the book to rise in the heights of ultra-rich society. Being overly familiar with the 'help' was a sure way to crash to the bottom of the list of importance at new events, but schmoozing for information was always fair game. “Radish, was it? I have to say, you look totally suited to being a model. Why did Oji keep you off the catwalk tonight?”

Raditz cleared his throat and gestured with his hand to cover up the failed handshake. At the same time, he puffed his chest at the compliment. His new outfit looked a bit more like a traditional men's suit but accentuated his narrow waist and broad shoulders with the clever use of Oji's signature asymmetrical pear lines, this time running diagonally across his chest and across one pant leg.

“Oh, he has his reasons. I don't much care as long as I get the paycheck and an invitation to these parties. And, it's Raditz, Ms. Briefs.” He grinned, a bit more honestly this time and opened his palm in invitation to walk with her to the bar.

Bulma raised an eyebrow and smiled at this more appropriate acknowledgment of her social status. She nodded once and stepped forward, her powder blue gown bathing in the pink and yellow hues. The lights, fading back and forth, caused her dress to shift between iridescent purple and green as the stones bounced blue light back through their facets. Walking through the crowd, who she noticed were almost completely dressed in black tie and black gowns, practically every guest found it impossible to ignore her presence.

Day to day, Bulma could give a rat's ass about grace and poise. She was most confident under her engines with a healthy coating of grease on her arms. But at this moment, as she caught a glimpse of Oji's silhouette on the other side of the restaurant, his unmistakable flame styled hair and impossibly thick build, she silently thanked her mother for every etiquette lesson, especially walking in couture gowns. The trick was to move as if the fabric weighed nothing, even when it added an extra thirty kilos to your body. As she meandered through the crowd, she made sure to put extra effort into swaying her hips and placing her feet with care so that the gown would move properly.

As she entered the party proper, a few of the guests abruptly left their conversations and openly greeted Bulma, unable to feign surprise at her presence. The short walk to the bar ended up taking much longer as a small crowd swarmed around her, complimenting her brash choice of gown, asking who the designer was, and bluntly requesting her to attend another event later in their personal line.

Bulma absolutely loathed this kind of fawning, but it fit her plan perfectly. Her presence had disrupted the party, and instead of the guests speaking to Oji's models and gabbing about his summer show, they were focused on her. She played along with coy smiles, witty repartee, and carefully chosen touches to a few arms of the most important guests around her. Like hell she was going to let Oji pretend she wasn't there this time. Backstage may have been unfamiliar territory, but high society was a playground for her.

Nearby, Raditz grabbed cocktail from a passing waiter and made quick work of the red hued Sazerac. A strong hand clapped his shoulder as he finished the drink in one gulp.

“Slow down, Bro. You know Vegeta will get pissed if we get drunk while we're still on the clock.” Goku laughed a bit, waiting for Raditz to respond. When he didn't, Goku followed Raditz's line of sight to the building crowd around Bulma. Even without being able to see the woman's face, the crowd around her spoke volumes about her appearance.

“Whoa! Who is _that_?” Goku's voice rose above the throb of the music and Raditz swiftly elbowed his younger brother in the side.

“Shut _up_. Vegeta assigned her to me tonight.” Raditz slipped his empty glass back on a passing tray and grabbed a second drink. “That is none other than Bulma Briefs, and if I know anything about women, she wants Vegeta's stinger to take a dip in her honey. That man is so dense. He just wants her out of the way because she crashed the show earlier. But I'm going to make sure she gets her honey pot properly stirred.”

Goku gasped.

“Vegeta has a stinger? WAIT! She … she _crashed_ his show?? Did Nappa let her backstage or something?” Within the crowd, Bulma was repositioning herself to make an exit in Raditz's direction. With a few empty promises and shuffles between the cluster, she finally backed herself to the edge and turned toward Radtiz with a smile.

“No, I did.” Raditz downed the second drink with a dramatic arch to his neck and handed his younger brother the glass as he walked to meet Bulma.

Goku gripped the glass, watched his brother strut toward the heiress, and decided it would be best for his career to head in the opposite direction.

“Ah, Raditz! How about that drink now?” Bulma flashed her brightest smile at him and took the offered hand, leading her out of the crowd.

“Of course Ms. Briefs, and may I say,” he leaned in close enough to speak under the music, “that gown is fabulous. Hugs you in all the right places.” Before Bulma could react, Raditz pulled her toward the bar, raised two fingers at the bartender, and leaned in again. “I must know who the designer is.”

She smirked a bit and leaned back against the bar, scanning the room for a familiar silhouette. When Raditz handed her the old fashioned glass, delicately garnished with a fresh lemon peel, she immediately took a sip, avoiding his question.

There. His pink-cast shadow stood not four meters from her. She took another sip of her drink and glanced at Raditz, giving him a once over.

In response, Raditz brushed his hand back over the side of his hair and puffed his chest a bit.

She knew exactly what she needed to do.

**

“No, the line was stitched with Nemurian silk thread. Each spool takes the artisans about a month to create. The result is not only a bespoke garment, but one that interweaves global fashion communities together,” Vegeta corrected one of the three editors that hadn't slipped away to mingle with the intrusive party crasher. “I'll be partnering with..”

The opaque panel next to him billowed slightly in his direction and through the screen, he saw a curvaceous silhouette with fluted rounds. But because the lights switched back and forth between yellow and pink, the silhouette not only shifted on the panel, but the shadow was glimmering. Whoever was on the other side must have been wearing something with stones that were picking up and tossing the light onto the panel. He had to admit, it added to the ambiance of his party nicely.

“...with a few of the nomadic Wasteland craftsmen to bring the silk to market for a select number of designers.” One of the editors tapped a few notes into her CapsuleTab, another gasped slavishly, and Baba gave him a curt nod.

“Oji, your summer line was exquisite, as always. But I was pleasantly surprised to see the introduction of asymmetrical elements. Is this a new trend for you?” Baba's voice had its own authoritative quality. The other two editors wisely remained silent in her presence.

From the other side of the panel, Vegeta was interrupted by Raditz's increasingly drunken voice.

“No, no, you're totally right. He was piiiiiiiissed. He let us have it before the party. But, how could I not?” Raditz chuckled and Vegeta noted that his shadow was moving closer to the woman.

“Oh, you're just too sweet. It's a shame you weren't on that catwalk first. A body like yours is definitely a show starter.” The woman openly flirted, but something in her voice was mocking.

It was _her._ Had he not been clear? Raditz was supposed to keep that woman _away_ from him. That man would never learn to take direction! If that pony-tailed playboy didn't sort his shit out, Vegeta would never let him back on the catwalk. Hoping to ignore the slight against his appearance, Vegeta turned back to Baba.

“Baba, you know I abhor trends. They are the layman's excuse for style.” Vegeta took a sip of his drink as the three editors around him laughed in agreement.

“Hey, I don't suppose you're one of my followers on InstaCap? Here, tell me what you think of this outfit. Practically everyone was wearing something like it at the Wasteland Valley music and art fest.” He was certain it was her now. He was also certain that the woman's voice had a deliberate sting to her words.

“Kami in hell! You look so good! And it's not just your stacked curves either.” Raditz gushed.

“Of course my dear Oji, but you know that your line will create those trends, as always.” Baba chuckled.

“It doesn't matter. I lead, others follow, that's just how the world is.” Vegeta spat his words a bit and turned to one of the quieter editors. “Ribrianne, how are you finding the photography department now that you've cleaned house at _DeuxNi_? I'll be blunt, the work from the past year had me questioning the magazine's future and my association with it.”

“Thank yoooou! I found the outfit featured in a magazine a few months ago. What was it called? The lookbook collections were seriously stunning and all over my InstaCap feed for weeks.” Bulma's shadow overlapped with Raditz's as the two scrolled through her phone. “Oh, right! _DeuxNi_.”

Vegeta's eyebrow twitched. It … twitched! She was deliberately trashing his opinions, at his party, not one meter away from him. After parties were about one thing only. Lavishing praise on the designer of the night. Anything else was social suicide. He took another sip of his drink and glanced at Baba. The haughty scowl on her face meant she had heard it too. Vegeta had to deal with this.

“Oh you're so right. I gathered up this new group of insanely talented street fashion photographers from Yunzabit Heights and ...” Ribrianne clamped her lips shut when she realized both Oji and Baba were piercing daggers through the white panel next to them.

Without a word of dismissal, Vegeta turned away from the editors and stepped to the other side of the panel, and stopped in his tracks. As if a steel rod had been shoved down his spine, he straightened his body and stared at the heiress, for the second time today. Well, stared at her exposed back, the gentle slope of her shoulder blades, the way the light danced across her exceptionally well-crafted, form-fitting gown. Her very not black, not in the party dress code, gown. His eyes lingered on the curve of her hips before traveling up the line of her spine, and resting on the back of her neck.

He cleared his throat, catching Raditz's attention who looked up from Bulma's phone first. Wide-eyes met a piercingly dark scowl.

“Uh, let me know if you need anything else, Ms. Briefs. I'll .. uh, be at the bar!” Without waiting for acknowledgment, Raditz side-stepped and hurried off.

Bulma turned around. Slowly. Purposefully. He half expected the woman to host a smarmy expression, but was taken back by a soft, deceptively pleasing smile.

“Ah, you must be the famous Oji. Bulma Briefs of Capsule Corporation. I'm … _sure_ that name is familiar to you?” Bulma extended one hand, palm down, a lady's handshake that requested the recipient kiss the back of her hand. It was a power move on her part. Clearly designed to establish a hierarchy over this man who seemed to fancy himself a prince.

Vegeta glanced at her hand and merely tilted his head back a bit as his eyes traced a slow path up her arm. He parted his lips as he met her eyes, showing of the gleam of his teeth before speaking. He was the wolf here. How utterly childish to crash a specific party, then act like she didn't know who the guest of honor was. He kept one hand in his side pocket, the other on his near empty drink. When she raised an eyebrow at his reluctance to take her hand, he spoke, not bothering to hide his condescension.

“If it isn't the world famous fashionista. What a surprise having _you_ at my event.” Vegeta stepped closer, dropping the volume of his voice below the din of the smooth house beats. “Who knew someone with absolutely no sense of taste could actually dress themselves well enough to attend a Paozu after party?”

Bulma's extended hand dropped into a fist before lowering to her hip. Her smile shifted as her eyes lost the veneer of pleasantries and tightened. She raised her chin and stepped into his personal space. Watching her eyes darken, Vegeta felt his heart jump a beat. He raised his glass to finish his drink but felt her fingers atop his.

Bulma pulled the glass from his hand and finished the drink herself. She licked the scent of the bitters from her lips and met his gaze.

“I'm sure that kind of arrogance suits you well in your … _little_ world,” Bulma chided, shifting her body a quarter turn away from him, “But not in mine. Good luck trying to partner up with those Wastelanders … without this _fashionista_.” She threw the last word back in his face.

She gave him one last look, handed the glass back to him, as if he were a passing waiter and walked back to the bar, smiling brightly at Raditz and an unusually nervous Goku.

Vegeta squeezed the glass in his hand, watching her saunter away, the stones on her dress practically opening a path of light for her to follow. She disappeared behind one of the panels leaving only her imperious, laughing silhouette.

The slow, thumping bass in the music had paused as a few vocals blanketed the crowd.

_I'm callin' out your name!_

_I'm callin' out your name!_

So he was right. The woman had set her sights on his business. Like _hell!_ He had built his line from the ground up and no one, not even the most powerful, gorgeous woman on the planet would rip it from his hands without a fight. However, he needed to pull her back into his court. When she had been backstage, she was obviously too stunned to understand what was even happening. But here at the party, she had used her celebrity status to take ownership of the night. That advantage had to go.

Vegeta set his glass on the tray of a passing waiter and worked his way to the front door. Weaving through the crowd of his admirers and fellow designers, he brushed off passing conversational openings. A few people watched him stalk through the party, but no one seemed terribly surprised by his brusque demeanor.

He caught up to her, just before she managed to get to the front door. Thankfully, no one had opened it for her yet. What kind of pleb would leave his after party only an hour into the event?

“Ms. Briefs,” Vegeta said as he stepped up behind her. She stopped and turned halfway, looking over her one covered shoulder at him. She said nothing in response.

Her name, his voice. The effect on her skin was electric. This was it! She had done it! True, she hadn't expected him to be _quite_ so abrasive to her, but she had clearly captured his attention. She would have to send a special thank you to Launch and Sour later. Much later, if Oji was about to do what she hoped. Not pushing her luck, she paused and waited, not meeting his glance. He took two more steps toward her, stopping just behind the flair of her gown.

“Perhaps I … spoke in haste.” Vegeta spoke quietly, hoping no one around would pick up on his conversation. “That gown _is_ truly stunning. Would you join me, later tonight to discuss it? After the party of course. Eleven?” He held his hand out discretely, offering her a business card.

She took the card, glanced at the address with a raised eyebrow, and slipped it into her hidden pocket. Internally, her body turned to cream and she was thankful the gown covered her legs that now pressed against each other.

“After 11 it is.” Bulma stepped away, pulled a pair of shades from the pocket, and walked into the flood of papparazi flashes once more. As she made her wait to her driver's car, the smiled a bit, realizing that the heat on her face from all the flashes couldn't come close to the heat she now felt between her legs.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh yes, Vegeta as a *total* snob, and Bulma in her most vainglorious self. Both these megalomaniacs are out of their element, but I doubt either of them realize it. Bulma's after party dress was inspired by three pieces, which I've linked on my tumblr. Check out "bulma's closet" tag to see. Hopefully, the descriptions were coherent.
> 
> One of the fun things about writing off canon is repurposing all the characters. In case it wasn't obvious, Ribrianne (Brianne de Chateau) is from DBS and was a part of Universe 2, so .. she gets to head up DeuxNi. Baba's title, "Uranai" which means "fortune teller", I think also works well as the name of fashion forward magazine. And Liqueur is the god of destruction from Universe 8. Additionally, every single place name has been pulled from Dragonball lore. So, enjoy this very .. uh, Canon AU.
> 
>   
> **Update Nov. 2019:**  
>  ALSO ... My dear. 🙏😭🖤💙🖤💙🖤💙  
> I am entirely honored to receive a THREE nominations for The Prince and The Heiress 2019 Awards this year. I am **floored!** I've just started writing in the Vegebul community this year, so I can't thank everyone enough for their comments, kudos, and amazing support in the Discord communities.  
> 
> 
> _The Scientific Trials_ has been tapped for the category of Best Canon Divergent.  
>  _Paozu Fashion Week_ has been tapped for the category of Best of the Kudos (100 or less)  
>  _Locksmith_ has been tapped for the category of Best of the BVDNs
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to the utterly amazing people who nominated these stories! ❤️️❤️️ I do promise that chapter 10 of The Scientific Trials will eventually get posted, and chapter 3 of Paozu Fashion Week is currently in development! Please check out ALL the amazing authors and artists starting Nov. 16 at [TPTH's website](http://theprinceandtheheiress.com/the-annual-awards/) and don't forget to vote!

**Author's Note:**

> The event was super fun and several authors built stories that begged for additional details and chapters. Mine was no different! Regular chapter writing to commence in chapter 2. Stay tuned to find out if Bulma really did crash Vegeta's backstage work, or if he just had a major case of "vegeta.exe has stopped working". 😜


End file.
